


Wolf

by Dracareesi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blood and Gore, Dom!Sansa, Dom/sub, F/F, Girl On Girl, Pain, Sub!Myranda, Torture, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracareesi/pseuds/Dracareesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa's bath scene with Myranda ends a little differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> At long last I've found time to write another story! Hope you like it. :D

The water had been piping hot when Myranda brought it in but the Northern cold had turned it chilly quite quickly. Sansa found the cold comforting, it was the only thing about her home that was exactly the way she remembered it. It gave her courage. The Dreadfort wench was a talkative one, she was quite clearly in love with Ramsay. Sansa had been crushed under Joffrey’s thumb and tormented by Cersei, and molested by Littlefinger but she would not take wisecracks from a servant. Her experience of the world had taught her things, she had heard of the ways Littlefinger’s whores were used and exploited; Myranda was a whore after all.  
  
  
“Enough,” Sansa said suddenly. “The water has gone cold and your tongue has lost its way.”  
The abrupt dismissal came as a contrast to Sansa’s usual quiet demeanour. Myranda’s annoyance was evident in her stiff and cold movements but she didn’t have the courage to talk back to the soon-to-be Lady Bolton. She helped Sansa out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel. “I will wait outside so you can get dressed, my lady.”, she said and turned to leave.  
“Wait.” Sansa’s voice was firm and commanding.  
  
  
“Yes, my lady?” Myranda managed through gritted teeth. She turned back around but did not meet Sansa’s eye.  
  
  
“Look at me.” She looked up at Sansa without a moment’s hesitation. The soft brown eyes with their roaring fire just below the surface, expressed better than any words how badly Myranda wanted to put an arrow through her face. Although this marriage was the last thing in the world Sansa wanted, it gave her some petty pleasure to see this most insignificant of enemies so jealous. She was reluctantly taking away Myranda’s only love, she decided to make the best of it.  
  
  
“Take off your clothes,” Sansa said nonchalantly with just enough mockery and disdain in her voice to betray her high birth.  
  
  
“My lady?” Myranda’s voice revealed more shock than anger.  
  
  
“You’re Lord Ramsay’s whore, aren’t you? You can be mine too. Now take off your clothes.” Myranda began to turn red with anger and Sansa was starting to enjoy herself. “Oh come now, stop blushing. Since when are whores shy about being naked?”  
  
  
“I am not a whore! I am the kennelmaster’s daughter.” Myranda’s voice quivered with anger as she spoke. Humiliation was beyond her power to take from anyone but Ramsay.  
  
  
“Lord Ramsay would want you to serve his Lady wife to the best of your abilities, few as they are. Don’t make me repeat myself.”  
  
  
Myranda took off her clothes slowly, never breaking away from Sansa’s eyes. Soon, she was standing naked and shivering and Sansa couldn’t help but smile. She examined what stood before her, her eyes passed over every bit of the slender, young body. She kept going until she was sure that Myranda was uncomfortable. “I’ve noticed you keep a flaying knife with you. A gift from Ramsay?”  
  
  
“Yes my lady.” Myranda hated this red haired bitch. She could almost hear the kind of pathetic noises she would make when Myranda flayed her.  
  
  
“Give it to me.”  
  
  
“No.” There was a limit to her tolerance and Sansa had crossed it.  
  
  
“No?” Sansa smirked for the briefest of moments before slapping her right across the face. “Doesn’t Lord Ramsay discipline his whores? I will make sure to ask him.”  
  
  
Myranda’s eyes were brimming with tears of anger and humiliation, but she knew that to act on it would be folly. Ramsay would hunt Sansa like he had hunted so many, Myranda just had to have patience. She bent down to find the flaying knife in the small pile of her clothes. Sansa snatched it from her hand, letting her towel fall to the floor.  
“Now you, my dear Myranda, are going to teach me the ancient traditions of my new family”, Sansa said, taking a step forward. Myranda stepped back until she felt the cold stone wall on her bare back and the first little prick of fear in her heart. “Put your left leg forward, on the toes, so I can see your thigh.”  
  
  
“Ramsay will not allow it. He’ll punish you. You will regret this.” Myranda’s words formed clearly in her head but what came out was just muttering and a few heavy breaths.  
  
  
“Didn’t you hear me Myranda?,” Sansa’s voice was as sweet as ever and her naked body was close enough for Myranda to admire her flawless beauty. She wanted to plead to be let go but she wanted to stab Sansa too, instead she positioned her leg the way Sansa had asked and waited.  
  
  
Sansa placed the tip of the knife on the junction between Myranda’s thigh and hip and ran the knife down her thigh drawing a thin line of blood and paused to appreciate it. The pain was nothing compared to Myranda’s previous experiences, it had elicited from her a small gasp in the beginning, but now she just held her breath and waited. When Sansa had finished, Myranda looked down to find a little square on her thigh, each side was about one finger long.  
  
  
“Now peel it off.” Sansa's eyes were as cold and filled with madness as any Boltons'.  
  
  
Myranda was sweating now. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said, my lady.” She was trying to grovel but she couldn’t help staring at Sansa, mesmerised.  
  
  
“I would do it myself but I don’t have the slightest skill in flaying. I might make a bit of a mess. Why don’t you guide my hand, Myranda?” Sansa looked into the soft brown eyes again and this time, along with the anger, hatred and fear she saw something else. It was what she had seen in Petyr Baelish’s eyes, and Joffrey’s and the Hound’s, and once, even Tyrion Lannister’s. She put her hand between Myranda’s legs to confirm her suspicions. Sansa felt the moisture and the heat and heard Myranda’s stifled scream as she guided her knife wielding hand along her thigh, never looking away from Myranda’s face. The brown eyes closed and sweat and tears trickled down her cheeks, Sansa stood there staring with a flap of skin in her hand.  
  
  
“Open your eyes Myranda, look at me.”  
  
  
Sansa straddled her leg and let out a low moan as she felt the warmth of blood on her womanhood. She pushed against the wound as the pleasure slowly ran through her body. Her fingers slid inside Myranda, the whore was screaming now. Pleasure and pain were indistinguishable to her.  
  
  
“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You don’t frighten me.” She whispered before covering Myranda’s lips with her own.


End file.
